


A Bad Day Made Better

by Proctor



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fun. Filth. And Feels :), Geralt's terrible sense of humour, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Semi-established relationship, Teasing, needy jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proctor/pseuds/Proctor
Summary: *“Oi! What’s this!?” the old woman screeched. “Oh-no-no-no. I was only expectin’ yourself, Witcher! I wasn’t expectin’ you to bring no servant!”Geralt had to dip the corners of his mouth to hold back a smile.This wouldn’t go down well.“Ah…I…You…!Servant!?Ibegyour pardon!?” Jaskier spluttered, his eyes so wide that his irises looked like two blue flies that had fallen into a cup of milk. “Do Ilooklike a servant!?”*Or: Jaskier has a bad day, not least of all because Geralt gets all the attention. Luckily for him, Geralt is willing to give him what he wants.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 254





	A Bad Day Made Better

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to writing my first Bottom!Geralt fic despite having mentioned it months ago. Lots of other shenanigans going on too XD
> 
> As always, apologies to my cousins across the pond for any British words or phrases that are unfamiliar.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :D

The sky was overcast, the rain lightly drizzling as Geralt guided Roach towards a sparse collection of cottages in the distance, small grey dots scattered across an endless stretch of crop-fields.

Unusually, they were not staying at an inn this evening, but rather with the mother of his present contractor—a meek middle-aged man who had approached them in the last town and told him of a recent warg problem she was having. Not a great job, nor a great reward, but they were heading in that direction anyway, and some extra coin plus a night in a bed for dispatching a couple of lesser beasts seemed like a fair deal.

It would especially please Jaskier who was currently plastered to his back, drooling on his jerkin, and snoring like an asthmatic duck. It wasn’t surprising that he was tired. Last night in the tent, Jaskier’s slumber had been interrupted when a field-mouse found its way up his trouser-leg. Apparently, for the first minute or so, he had thought that it was Geralt being ‘amorous’, and indeed, Geralt had awoken to the sound of his name and a soft giggle; a giggle that was then abruptly cut off by a shriek of: _‘Arrgh! Fuck-fuck-fuck! Shit-shit-shit!’_ as Jaskier sprang to his feet, scrabbled at his fly, hauled his britches off, and huddled in the corner, the protrusion in his smallclothes waning as he waved the furry little critter away with a: _‘Shoo! Shoo! Begone, foul creature!’._

Geralt had watched the whole thing with mild amusement, but when the show was over, rolled back onto his side.

“You’re not just going back to _sleep_ , are you!?” Jaskier had shrilled. “I’ve just been molested by a rodent, Geralt! I feel utterly violated!”

“Well, you have to admire its enthusiasm,” Geralt had smiled, closing his eyes. “Probably the most eager anything’s ever been to get inyour britches.”

He hadn’t needed to see the unimpressed pout on Jaskier’s face to know it was there, yet had taken pleasure in envisioning it all the same as he gently drifted off back to sleep.

_Good times._

*

Geralt led Roach onward as he surveyed the horizon. He had no idea where he was going, only that apparently ‘everybody’ here was acquainted with this woman ‘Renata’, though whether that was due to familiarity or _notoriety_ , he wasn’t sure.

As he continued, he saw an elderly man with a wooden crook feeding chickens outside a nearby farmhouse, so ushered Roach in his direction. Approaching the fence, he turned to Jaskier and, finding him still slumped half-way down his back, sleeping with his mouth hanging open like an idiot, smirked and pulled on Roach’s reins with a deliberately firm tug. Roach ground to a halt, bucking slightly, and Jaskier jerked awake with a start, whipping his head from left to right.

“Whuuh—!? Are we under attack, are we under attack!?”

Jaskier blinked his bleary eyes but upon finding no immediate danger, gave a sigh of relief and looked up at Geralt as he wiped the saliva from his chin, noting without too much surprise, the grin on his witcher’s face.

“Right. I see. You’re just being an arse then.”

“I am,” Geralt concurred.

Forthright as usual, unapologetically so, and really, Jaskier shouldn’t have expected anything less…or more _._

“Well, thank you for your shameless honesty, Geralt,” he said, turning up his nose. “I’ll remember that technique the next time you accuse me of pissing in your ale.”

“I’ve never accused you of that.”

“Well, when you do, prepare to be confronted with a few unpleasant truths.” 

Geralt smiled. It was a bluff, after all, he’d have been able to tell—Jaskier, on the other hand, without his heightened sense of taste and smell, would likely have no idea. Something to keep in mind perhaps…

“Anyway, I’m flattered that you’re always carving time out of your busy witchering-schedule to torment unwitting bards and all, Geralt, but it’s past breakfast, shouldn’t you be killing something right now?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Jaskier looked up at the stormy sky with a grimace and shivered, rubbing the arms of his turquoise doublet and blinking the wet from his eyes. “ _Normally_ , I make a habit of declininginvitations of murderous intent directed at my person, especially yours, but give me another week of this miserable weather and I might just take you up on that offer.”

Geralt gave a small, amused snort. _So much fuss over a few drops of rain._ _Thank fuck it wasn’t snowing_.

He led Roach on, slowing to a stop when they reached the farmer who looked up from his chickens and peered at him.

“You’re local?” Geralt asked. He needn’t have, it was obvious, but benign introductory questions tended to alleviate initial tension and reduce the chances of people reaching for their swords…or livestock (he’d had a goose thrown at him once). The man seemed unfazed by him however.

“Born and bred,” he said. “And me father, and me grandfather before ‘im. All farmin’ folks.”

“Which way to Renata’s?”

Jaskier tutted at the abruptness of the question following the old man’s fond statement regarding his heritage. Geralt could have at least acknowledged it with a ‘good’, ‘I see’, or at worst, a tried and true ‘hm’. _He_ on the other hand, would have struck up conversation, told him what a nice farm he kept, how varied his crops were and how fine his chickens.

“’bout a mile east,” the farmer replied. “No path though, you’ll ‘ave to cut across the fields.” He then looked Geralt up and down. “Renata’s, you say. You ‘ere for the wargs?”

“I am.”

“You a Witcher then?”

“I am.”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “And I, his most trusted companion,” he announced, puffing his chest out. “Poet, bard, and _exceptional_ lover.”

Geralt slowly turned his head, staring at him with an eyebrow cocked in disbelief. _Who the fuck introduced themselves by their (heavily biased) sexual prowess, especially to some poor old man?_

Jaskier however, assumed Geralt’s reaction was over the ambiguous connection _between_ those proclamations, and quickly tried to correct his error. “O-oh! Right. Yes. I see the confusion here. Those were intended as two separate statements by the way. I _am_ his most trusted companion, yes. But I _also_ happen to be—in addition to a tremendously talented poet and bard—an exceptional lover. In a general sense, that is. Not _his_ , of course,” he clarified, thinking that Geralt might not be best pleased if he made reference to their occasional bedroom frolicking. “Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, you understand. I’m sure many a hot-blooded male has found solace in the strong, welcoming arms of a rugged, lustful warrior. But me? No-no. I love women, love all that…you know,” Jaskier cupped his hands in front of his chest around a pair of giant, invisible breasts and gave them a squeeze. “Yeah, love all that, so I do.”

Geralt shook his head in dismay. Jaskier talked with everyone, enjoyed company, and would no doubt consider himself a gregarious ‘man of the people’, yet in spite of all this, somehow managed to demonstrate some of the most breathtaking displays of social ineptitude that he had ever seen.

The man seemed equally confounded.

“Ignore him,” he told the farmer, “I found him in a ditch.”

 _“Geralt!”_ Jaskier chided.

The old man hobbled over with his tall curled stick, seemingly intrigued. “A ditch, you say?”

Geralt gave a sad, regretful sigh and gazed pensively into middle-distance as if recalling a particularly painful memory.

“He was…covered in fleas…”

 _“Wh_ _—!_ _?”_

“...soaked in his own piss…”

_“Geraaaalt.”_

“...muttering to himself like a madman…”

_“GERALT!”_

“I managed to get rid of the fleas, bought him some new, if…questionable clothing,” he added, briefly eyeing Jaskier’s turquoise ensemble, “but…alas, have been unable to stop the incoherent ramblings, an unfortunate product of his…unsound mind.”

Jaskier smacked his arm then folded his own in a huff.

“I see, I see,” the man nodded in sympathetic understanding.“‘Ere, Leave your ‘orse with me if it pleases you. I own those there stables, and me mare could do with some company. I’ll feed ‘er well, give ‘er a good brush, and re-hoof ‘er for tomorrow. Least I can do for riddin’ us of those damned wargs.” He then leaned in close and lowered his voice to a quiet yet audible whisper. “And if I may say so, sir, I find it mighty charitable of you to take this poor wretch of a man under your wing,” he finished, subtly gesturing his head in Jaskier’s direction, “mighty charitable indeed.”

_“Poor wre-!?”_

Geralt gently closed his eyes, pressed his lips into a thin line, and nodded slowly in feigned solemnity.

Jaskier threw his arms up dramatically in the air and smacked them down on his thighs then looked between both men and their expressions of shared pity. “Yes, all right, all right. Thank you for that Geralt. And you sir, _you._ I was going to compliment you on your chickens, but do you know, I think I’ll keep my poultry flattery to myself.”

The man ignored him and continued to speak to Geralt.“Come on then, I’ll show you the stables,” he offered, then paused thoughtfully and added: “didn’t expect you witchers to be so friendly. Nice surprise.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier complained, rolling his eyes.

*

On their way through the fields, Jaskier noticed a group of women sitting on a knitted blanket on the muddy ground, talking and giggling as they weaved small willow shapes in the rain. They had been walking for a while now, long past the suggested mile, perhaps even in the wrong direction…and that was all the justification he needed to regain his dignity. Geralt may be popular with the oldies, but this, _this_ , was where _he_ really shone, and he was going to prove it.

“Geralt, Geralt,” he said, pulling at Geralt’s sleeve and nodding over at the women. “We should ask them where the Renata’s is.”

Geralt gave a weary sigh. He knew what this was and it had nothing to do with navigating the countryside, Jaskier just wanted to show off, and that never ended well. “Leave them be, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stilled, then his eyes grew large as he appeared to have an epiphany. “ _Oh-ho-ho!_ I see what _this_ is!” he laughed triumphantly, bolting out in front of him, blocking his path, and waving an accusatory finger in his face. “Geralt of Rivia is too _proud_ to ask women for directions.”

Geralt wrapped a black-gloved fist around the intrusive digit and began squeezing it with increasing pressure until Jaskier gave in with a ‘yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-sorry-sorry-sorry,’ before letting go.

“No,” he replied calmly, “I just know you too well to let you bumble your way through this conversation and ultimately humiliate yourself. Trust me. I’m doing everyone a favour, nay, a public service.”

“Oh, don’t besilly,” Jaskier tutted, limply shaking his wrist, presumably to get the blood-flow back in his finger, then raised his head proudly, veered to the right, and marched on so that Geralt was given little choice but to follow—well, technically, he _could_ have left him, but the thought of Jaskier lost in the fields, whining for him in the rain like an abandoned puppy was too pitiful for even _him_ to allow, and he’d only end up searching for him later, so he reluctantly tagged along.

As they approached, a woman with thin mousey-brown hair looked up, glancing at them both then turning her attention back to her willow and resuming her work with a smile.

“Hello, handsome man,” she said.

“Well, hello, yourselves, ladies,” Jaskier replied suavely, putting his hands on his hips and flashing a roguish smile.

They all glanced at each other and started to giggle then looked at Geralt.

Jaskier followed their gazes and realised his mistake. _Typical, just bloody typical._ And Geralt’s knowing smirk suggested that he was simply loving this embarrassing display, barely holding back his _‘I told you so’._

“Ah. Yes. Of course. You meant him, right? I knew that, didn’t I, Geralt? It’s just a little game we play in which I assume the role of a charming but misguided bard who believes that a stylish musician of a cheerful disposition might hold more widespread appeal than an ominously-dressed pest-controller who thinks ‘ebullience’ was a 10th century plague.”

“8th century,” Geralt corrected.

A woman with blonde hair tittered and looked at Jaskier. “You say funny things. Hello, funny man.”

“Right, he gets ‘handsome’ and I get ‘funny’” Jaskier muttered.

“I’d say they let you off lightly, Jaskier,” Geralt said, placing a hand on his shoulder and smiling. _Very_ lightly in his opinion, especially considering the smorgasbord of character flaws at their disposal, and Jaskier _was_ quite funny, particularly when he was having a tantrum.

“What role is yours, handsome man?” The brunette asked.

“Me? I play the pest-controller. Only I haven’t managed to get rid of this one yet,” he replied, pointing a thumb at Jaskier. “Well, I have. It’s just that he keeps coming back.”

The women giggled again and Jaskier rolled his eyes. It wasn’t even amusing, but it didn’t seem to matter in the slightest, it rarely did, Geralt had once made a fish pun at a banquet, and the crowd nearly wet themselves laughing. People still talked about it to this day. He had wanted to curl up and die.

“Do you know the way to the house of a woman named Renata?” Geralt continued.

The blonde woman raised her arm and dreamily swirled her finger, pointing vaguely and unhelpfully east(ish).

“There are certainly buildings in that direction,” Jaskier agreed, “but then again, so is the sea if you go far enough. Any idea how long it might take?”

“Not long. Eight fields. Nice cottage. Away from others. Funny woman. So _angry_ ,” and she pulled a comically sour face, causing the other women to laugh.

“Don’t steal her cabbages,” said another. “Her voice goes ‘squeak, squeak’ like a mouse.”

“I’ll remember that,” Geralt nodded, urging Jaskier on with a hand on his back while resisting the temptation to make a mouse comment. But Jaskier held fast.

“If you don’t mind me asking, ladies, what are you doing that’s so important that you’re sitting out in the rain?”

“Making charms. They keep the calm.”

“Keep the calm,” another chimed in. “Offer peace.”

“Sounds good,” Geralt said. “I’ll take five-hundred.”

Jaskier elbowed Geralt in the ribs but he didn’t even flinch.

“Come, sit. Make charms. Keep the calm.”

“Well, _indeed_ ,” Jaskier started, crouching down, “Don’t mind if I do—” Geralt hauled him to his feet by the collar of his doublet and smiled courteously at the women.

“Thank you for your time, ladies. We’ll be on our way now.” He strode forward, dragging Jaskier behind him.

*

A cottage came into view beyond the fields, far enough away from all the other houses that it could only be Renata’s. When they reached it, Jaskier, exhausted from all the walking, slumped down on a log pile beside the door with a groan, running his hand through his wet hair.

“I’ll just…catch my breath, you…you do the talking. Apparently…you’re good at that,” he wheezed, waving his hand loosely in the air.

“Careful, Jaskier, sounds like you might have ebullience,” Geralt said with a playful hitch of his eyebrows then knocked on the door and stood with his arms heavy at his sides. He waited for about a minute but there was no reply. He looked at Jaskier.

“Maybe she’s…out?” he suggested.

Geralt knocked again.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Bloody hell,” came a high raspy voice, and it was followed by a stream of curses.

The door swung open and a tiny elderly woman with long, wiry grey hair, a few missing teeth, and the mirrored sour expression of the earlier willow-weaver greeted him. _Perhaps ‘greeted’ was too generous a word._

“You tryin’ to break down me door!? I ‘eard you the first time, an I’m ‘alf deaf. You young ‘uns are all the same. Too bloody impatient. You’ll regret bein’ in such an ‘urry when you get to my age and the only thing to look forward to is bein’ buried in the dirt.”

It was the first welcome Geralt had ever received that covered the subjects of youth, old-age, and death before he had even managed to say his name. “I—” he began.

“—You ‘ere about the the sow? Good breeder she is, but the price is the price, I ain’t takin’ no less.”

“I’m not here about a pig. I—”

“—You better not be stealin’ my cabbages. I’ve ‘ad enough of you thievin’ little buggers. If I catch you at it again, I’ll ‘ave you over my chair with a paddle.”

Geralt took a deep breath, but he could hear Jaskier sniggering quietly beside him.

After the morning he’d had, Jaskier was rather pleased to see Geralt on the receiving end of some mild irritation, and the thought of him being paddled by an old woman was certainly an amusing one… though the thought of him being bent over a chair with his britches around his boots was perhaps a more gratifying one…

“I’m here about the wargs,” Geralt said. “I was told by your son that you’d offer us bed and board.”

She cupped a hand to her ear. “What?”

“BED AND BOARD.”

“You tread on a sword!? Well, you should ‘ave been lookin’ where you was goin’, Sonny. Not my problem. I’ll not be nursin’ you.”

Geralt was tempted to walk away, and had they been in town, would have gone straight to the next available inn. Unfortunately it wasn’t an option.

“I’m a witcher.”

She paused, then her eyes widened with realisation. “Ohhh. You’re the witcher?”

“Yes.”

“Come about the wargs?”

Geralt gave a small sigh of relief. “Yes.”

“Well, you should ‘ave said so! Fancy misleadin’ an old woman like that.”

“You’re right. Apologies for the deceit. I shouldn’t have lied about the sword.”

Jaskier tittered.

“No, you shouldn’t. I’m too old for pranks. Right. Let me see you then.”

The old woman reached out and tightly gripped his biceps through his black jerkin. “Strong arms,” she commented with a fierce nod, then gave his stomach a slap, “tough gut,” then to Geralt’s surprise and discomfort, reached around and grabbed the right cheek of his backside through his leather trousers. “Good arse.” She folded her arms. “You’ll do.”

Geralt tightened his lips and turned his head to find Jaskier laughing behind his fist, his shoulders gently shaking.

“I suppose you’ll need shown ‘round. Well it won’t take long. There’s only three rooms, an’ one of ‘ems me bedroom, an’ if you think for one moment that you’re gettin’ in there an’ rummagin’ about in me knicker drawer, you’ve got another thing comin’, Boy. Bloody deviants.”

Jaskier was still grinning as he hauled himself off the logs and followed Geralt through the door.

“Oi! What’s this!?” Renata screeched. “Oh-no-no-no. I was only expectin’ yourself, Witcher! I wasn’t expectin’ you to bring no servant!”

Geralt had to dip the corners of his mouth to hold back a smile _._ _This wouldn’t go down well._

“Ah…I…You…! _Servant!?_ I _beg_ your pardon!?” Jaskier spluttered, his eyes so wide that his irises looked like two blue flies that had fallen into a cup of milk. “Do I _look_ like a servant!?”

“Well, you’ve got that gormlessness about you, don’t you?”

Jaskier gasped in horror. “ _Gormless_ _—_ _!?_ _”_ he shrilled, blinking wildly with shock then throwing his arms out and waving them around in the air. “I’ve got _bags_ of gorm! _Mountains_ of gorm! I’ve got so much _gorm_ I don’t know what to do with it all! _What’s_ that you say? You’re after some _gorm_? Well, _here,_ have some of _miiiiiine!_ ” And jaskier thrust his palms forward to proffer a large, imagined quantity of gorm.

“He’s…not a servant,” Geralt cut in, gently lowering Jaskier’s hands before there was a brawl (even though seeing Jaskier skirmishing on the floor with an elderly woman might well have proved entertaining). “He’s a…”

_‘Friend?’ ‘Acquaintance?’ ‘Liability?’_

“...Apprentice,” he finished.

“Don’t look like no fighter.”

“I, _Missus_ , fight with _words,_ ” Jaskier said sternly then gave a theatrical twirl of his hand. “ _I_ fight with the power…of song.”

“Song?” She muttered to Geralt, “‘E ever managed to kill anything with that?”

“A few small animals,” Geralt offered, and Jaskier gave a loud tut.

“Well, I ain’t got no bed for this ‘ere singin’ peacock of yours.”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt smiled, knowing fine well that they would share the bed. “My companion here prefers the floor, don’t you, Jaskier?” He clapped him on the back. “The colder and harder, the better,” he added fiendishly.

Jaskier shot Geralt a narrowed-eyed look of contempt, and Geralt met it with a self-satisfied grin.

“Well, you’ll find nought colder than me floors, all right,” Renata agreed. “Come on then.” She ushered Geralt inside then turned to Jaskier. “And _you!_ If you _dare_ drag any mud into me house, so help me, not a song in the world will save you from the fate that awaits you!”

“Wh-!? But Geralt’s walked through just as much—!”

“—QUIET!”

“Eek!” Jaskier squeaked, and quickly began removing his boots.

*

Darkness had begun to fall and the rain battered low and dull against the thatched roof as Jaskier sat on the fur rug by the fire in his room, dressed only in his shirt and white braies, the rest of his soaking clothes drying on the chair as he awaited Geralt’s return.

_What a horrid day it had been._

Sheltered from the elements and free of his wet clothes, he could no longer attribute his current misery to either. If asked, it would be reasonable to blame it on Geralt and his recent devilry (though that was nothing new), if not, it would be equally as simple blame the rudeness of everyone else (though that was hardly new either), the truth of the matter however, lay somewhere between the two; Geralt could be as curt, or rude, or mocking as he liked; he could act thoroughly disinterested, make terrible jokes, or simply say nothing at all, and yet _still_ manage to get more attention than him.

He didn’t begrudge him people’s favour. He was pleased to see him being accepted by others, especially when his profession normally invoked such ire. And it wasn’t as though it happened all the time; Geralt’s manner tended to infuriate just as many people as it charmed.

Still, when this imbalance between them _did_ occur, it appeared to do so relentlessly.

Perhaps his frustration was furthered by the fact that Geralt never even appreciated such attention, never seemed to be bothered by it either way. You could tell him that he was the most wonderful man on the continent and he would simply shrug, tell him he was the most insufferable arsehole you’d ever met, and he’d do exactly the same, perhaps even with a smile. Yes, he may benefit from a better reputation on account of Jaskier’s songs, but he never sought personal approval from anyone, didn’t need it, didn’t try for it, and if he got it, was distinctly unmoved by it. And Jaskier wondered what that must be like, how easy it must be when you didn’t care what others thought of you.

He sighed. Perhaps _he_ just cared too much, and that wasn’t Geralt’s fault.

Just then, he noticed a small black speck on the horizon and ran to the window in the bedroom where he had willingly imprisoned himself. _‘Fuck. Yes. Thank the Gods.’_

It was another short while before Geralt entered the cottage—during which time Jaskier had popped his head ‘round the door to request a bath but had then quickly shut it before there was the chance for Renata to reply.

Jaskier heard footsteps and the mutter of conversation through the door as he stood with his ear pressed to it, but he jumped back when Renata started yelling at Geralt. And yelling. And yelling. A long silence, then the door opened.

“Geralt. There you are. Glad you’re back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt replied calmly, taking off his gloves and boots as if he hadn’t just been screamed at.

“I saw you coming. Peeked out to ask for a bath. Whether she’ll be willing to provide one or not is anyone’s guess.”

“You haven’t left the room?”

“Gods no, Geralt! You’ve met our host. There’s a privy outside you know, but I’ve been weeing in the chamberpot instead because I’m worried she’ll think I’m up to something nefarious and lock me inside as punishment.”

“You want me to come with you? Hm? Protect you while you piss?” Geralt smirked.

“No need, I’ve no intention of leaving. I’ll barricade myself in here until dawn. I’ve got a biscuit in my bag. I’ll eat a crumb an hour. Oh, and I should also add that I’ll be sharing that aforementioned bath with you …should it appear, that is.”

Geralt wasn’t too concerned, it happened fairly regularly, but he was a little surprised that Jaskier hadn’t had one before now considering he’d been here for hours.

“You didn’t want one of your own?”

“I was pushing my luck asking for one, Geralt! How pleased do you think she’d be if I asked for two!?”

“Hm. Not very.”

“That’s an understatement! She’d have my balls, Geralt, my BALLS!”

“Then I’d know what’s for supper,” Geralt smiled.

The door was wrenched open and Renata entered, hauling a wooden tub into the room across the stone floor. Geralt was impressed that a woman of her age possessed such strength, though thought it discourteous not to offer assistance.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“What!? You think I’m some fragile old fossil, do you?”

“Of all the words available to me, ma’am, ‘fragile’ is not one I would use to describe you,” Geralt answered politely.

“Though, I can think of a few others,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, and Geralt gave him a mild, cautioning look.

“Just as well,” she remarked, and began mumbling to herself as she shuffled out the room to fetch a jug of hot water. They watched her in silence as she scooted back and forth, filling the tub. “There’s stew in the pot,” she finally announced, “You can ‘ave it now or warm it later, all odds to me. But mind, if you eat with me, you don’t say a word. I’ll ‘ave none of your nonsense. I know what men speak of, it’s all ‘tits’ this, and ‘arse’ that. Disgustin’.”

“We’ll eat when we’re hungry,” Geralt said, “and now I will know not to share my personal thoughts on the subject of arses.”

She gave a nod and retreated, slamming the door behind her.

“Phew,” Jaskier exhaled, “ _That_ was a hairy moment. I thought I was going to have to suffer a meal with that woman.”

“Hm. That might have been…awkward,” Geralt admitted as he took off his jerkin.

Jaskier stripped off his shirt and braies by the fire then walked over to the tub. He looked at it suspiciously, then, clutching his bare shoulders, dipped a toe in the water, checking that it wasn’t an acid bath.

Geralt watched him while he finished undressing, eyes briefly flitting over his chest-hair, thighs, and cock. He might have looked longer, but noting Jaskier’s continued scepticism of the water, approached the bath himself, climbing in, reclining against the wood, then raising his arms to demonstrate that he hadn’t died.

Jaskier hesitantly clambered in after him and began awkwardly arranging their limbs. “Bit snug, isn’t it?” he said once they were settled, then reached for his bottle of lavender oil and poured some in.

It _was_ a little cramped, but they were used to that, and relief was soon offered when Jaskier lifted his legs out the water to wash his feet, balancing them one at a time on Geralt’s parted knees as he cleaned his toes, then perching them, crossed at the ankle, on the rim beside his arm. Geralt instinctively lowered a palm to rest on them and gently hold him in place. It wasn’t unusual behaviour, but sometimes Jaskier would smile at him when he did it, or nudge him playfully with the tips of his toes, or reach into the water and hold his own in kind, stroking over them with his thumb, just to show him that they were sharing the moment. Tonight, Jaskier didn’t seem to notice it, let alone react to it, instead he stared silently into the flame of a nearby candle, his expression thoughtful but a little glum.

“You’re quiet,” Geralt commented, and though he had meant it as a casual observation, he was aware of the slight concern lacing his tone. “Comparatively, at least,” he added with a quirk of his lips, and lightly squeezed Jaskier’s calf…but it wasn’t acknowledged.

“It’s…nothing,” Jaskier said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He didn’t want have that conversation, didn’t want to admit to petty jealousy, or envy, or whatever this was, and perhaps more importantly, didn’t want their time together to be spent squabbling.

Instead he smiled and nudged Geralt’s arm with his toes. Geralt smiled back, seemingly contented by it.

“So. What was Raging Renata shouting about earlier?” he asked, a little more upbeat. “Sounded a bit full-on.”

Geralt clicked the front of his teeth and slowly tapped the side of the tub with the knuckles of his free hand as though considering whether or not he wanted to respond.

Jaskier waited. It was the first thing he’d thought of to say, but Geralt’s unexpected hesitation now made him rather curious.

“I…” Geralt began, but stopped, giving a long, almost indefinite pause. For a moment, Jaskier thought he wasn’t going to answer at all, but just then, and with considerable reluctance and palpable discomfort, Geralt finally replied:

“I…brought her a warg head.”

It took several seconds for the statement to sink in, but when it did, a great cackle suddenly ripped from Jaskier’s throat and he flung his head back against the rim of the tub. “ ** **Bwah ha ha haaaaa!**** You brought her a _head!?_ a _severed_ head!? A severed _monster_ head!? _”_

“I did.”

“Good Gods, man! Have you taken indiscriminate leave of your senses!?” he laughed. “What were you thinking!?”

“It seemed…reasonable.”

“ _Reasonable!?_ Ha!” _And here he was thinking the evening would be humourless_. “Oh, this is good, this is good! Did you cover it with something? Wrap it up? Decorate it with bows and ribbons and bequeath it on one knee with a hand-written love letter? Or did you just have the mutilated thing drip blood and innards all over her kitchen floor? No-no, don’t answer that. Leave it to my imagination,” he grinned.

Geralt looked away with an awkward grunt.

“ _I know, I know._ You were providing ‘proof of your services’,” Jaskier said with a slow nod, even though the reasoning was still ridiculous given the circumstances. “But should you have deemed it absolutely necessary, you could have at least settled for paw, or a tooth, or...oh, I don’t know, a warg-bollock. She’d have been able to make a necklace out of that.”

Geralt shifted slightly. “That’s not…why I did it.”

“Oh, why then?” He couldn’t think of another reason.

“I thought…”

“Mm-hm.”

“...that if I attached it to a pole…”

“Okay.”

“...and displayed it outside…”

“Yes?”

Geralt paused a final time, then gave in with a sigh, “...it might stop people from stealing her cabbages.”

There was a second of silence in which Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he almost burst out laughing again, but then stopped, the mocking grin gradually falling from his face. No wonder Geralt didn’t want to talk about it. It had been a good idea (albeit in a rather grizzly way), but one that had backfired quite tremendously. Perhaps more embarrassing still, was how uncharacteristically naive Geralt had been in thinking she would be grateful for such a gesture. He felt a little sorry for him.

“Well, you didn’t deserve the screaming,” he said more compassionately, “but _surely_ you must have known that you’d get no thanks for it.”

Geralt gave a small, indifferent shrug. “I knew,” he said, as if it were nothing.

Jaskier grew quiet.

No, Geralt didn’t seek approval, but not because he didn’t care about it, rather because he’d grown to have no expectations of it. And yet…he had done this regardless, not as part of the moral code Jaskier often associated with him, (the moral code Geralt would vehemently deny having), this wasn’t about right or wrong after all, just an angry woman and a cabbage patch, no, he just…wanted to help, and his embarrassment came from admitting that, not because it hadn’t been appreciated.

Jaskier then realised a little shamefully, that had _he_ done it, it would have been, at best, to garner favour, and at worst, committed out of pure unadulterated spite.

Maybe that was the difference between them…

“Of course you did,” he smiled softly, stroking over Geralt’s toes.

_Perhaps he still had a lot to learn._

*

When they were done and had extricated themselves from the lukewarm water, Geralt held his towel out in front of him and shook it in Jaskier’s direction.

“Dry me off…servant,” he teased.

“Oh, don’t _you_ bloody start,” Jaskier said with a tiny huff, but it was light, lighter than it would have been before their conversation, and he still strode over to Geralt, fully nude, taking the towel from his outstretched hand and running it across his broad shoulders, gathering up his long hair in a bundle so he could reach the nape of his neck and give it a good dry. “Today I’ve been ignored by old men, giggled at by women, and belittled by paddle-wielding tyrants; I’ve been called a poor wretch, a ‘funny’ man, and a gormless peacock; the weather’s shit, my clothes are drenched, I’ve got naught but a biscuit to my name; and if you think I require a further contribution from you in order to complete my state of mounting misery, then I can assure you, Geralt,” he prodded a finger into chest, “that I. do. not.”

Geralt tilted his head to the side and gave Jaskier a look of amused sympathy, the kind that one might give a child who was sulking because they’d lost a button. Individually, none of these things were particularly significant, but when put together like that, he could see why Jaskier hadn’t had the best day. That said, he never made things easier on himself. With all that bravado, all that haughtiness, and all those holes he dug and kept digging, it wasn’t hard to see why people didn’t always take him seriously, yet Jaskier seemed oblivious to it, shocked when he wasn’t fawned over by everyone, and Geralt found it…a little funny.

“What’s the matter, Jaskier?” he asked playfully. “Hm? Did someone not get enough attention today?”

He had only meant it as a jest, and had expected a petulant retort, but Jaskier’s cheeks grew pink, and he became flustered, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Yes…No…Maybe. Ohh…I don’t know,” Jaskier replied, stilling his hand, then appeared to steel himself, resuming his task, roughly drying Geralt’s belly.

He looked embarrassed, perhaps even a little ashamed. There was obviously more to it than Geralt had thought. And that was one of the problems with Jaskier; he was so needlessly dramatic about everything that it was difficult to tell when something had genuinely affected him. Geralt suspected that most of it was just surface-level pomp, an opportunity to complain and take offence at every possible slight, but this didn’t seem to be one of those times. Had he known, he might have behaved differently, a little wickedness wasn’t unusual between them, but it couldn’t have helped…

He reached a hand out to steady the arm that was fussily drying him, holding it still until it stopped trying to resist his grasp then waiting in silence for Jaskier to meet his gaze. It took a few moments, but hesitant blue eyes eventually found their way to his own, and when they did, he smiled, endeared by the rare timidness in them. He took a small step forward on his bare feet, moving in closer so that their bodies were a few inches apart, so that he could feel the heat of Jaskier’s bath-warmed skin in the air between them and smell the fragrant lavender oil that perfumed his hair. He leaned down, their lips almost brushing, and lowered his voice to a deep, gentle roll.

“Do you want some attention _now?_ ”

Jaskier’s cheeks grew hot and he could feel the blood rushing to his cock. The implication was an obvious one, and normally, he would have responded eagerly, but on account of his bruised ego today, he wanted to clarify it before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

“What…kind of attention?” he asked gingerly.

Geralt’s smile widened. Jaskier knew exactly what he was talking about—his half-hard cock confirmed it—and though it wasn’t like him to appear ignorant, it seemed that this was the game they were playing tonight. He lifted his hand, and with the tip of his middle finger, swept aside the soaked brown tendrils that clung to Jaskier’s forehead before lightly grazing his knuckles down his cheek, following a streak of water that ran from his temple, over his high cheekbone, and disappeared under his chin. “What kind of attention…would you like?”

There was no doubt left in Jaskier’s mind what he meant now. Geralt’s words were as evasive as always when it came to initiating intimacy, but the gesture was the greater tell; it was small, not even sexual but…affectionate, and the rarity of that said more of his intentions than any frank or salacious remark ever could.

He felt his lips pull up a little shyly. Still reluctant to be the first to ask for it though, he batted his wet eyelashes and answered coyly:

“The kind that leaves me warm and glowing.”

Geralt chuckled. “I see,” he nodded sagely. “You want thrown in the fire then, do you?”

Jaskier gave Geralt a quick lash with the towel, making his witcher grin, then let it drop to the floor and moved back in, resting his palms on the jut of Geralt’s hips and poking his erection into Geralt’s soft, thick cock until it began to fill out, rising alongside his own. “ _No,”_ he said, I want to find solace in the arms of a rugged, lustful warrior.”

“Hm. Did you have one in mind?”

Jaskier smiled and ran a finger up Geralt’s arm then gripped the bulge of his biceps. “Strong arms,” he commented appreciatively then slowly dragged his hand down Geralt’s damp furry chest to his muscular abdomen and pressed firmly, “tough gut”. He then reached around, smoothing a palm down over his bottom, finding the plumpest, most supple part above the seam where the curve of his buttocks met the top of his thigh, and gave the meat of it a hard, indulgent squeeze. “ _Great_ arse,” he said with a wink, and was pleased when he felt Geralt’s prick twitch against his own. “You’ll do.”

“I’ll do, will I?”

“Mmmm, you’ll do,” Jaskier repeated, resting his arms loosely on Geralt’s shoulders, lacing his fingers behind his back, and gazing at his plump lips. He could have just kissed him in that moment…if Geralt let him, but instead, he took his hands from him, turned around, and padded over to the single bed in the corner. He climbed on top of it, causing the old wooden frame to give a small squeak, then lay on his side and patted the space beside him, beckoning Geralt over, needing to feel his body close to his.

Geralt wandered across the room and lay down face-to-face beside him…the frame this time giving a deep, woeful groan.

Jaskier laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Ha! Blimey! _Someone_ needs to lay off the honey cakes.”

“Hmph. I would if you’d stop buying them,” Geralt huffed.

“What? No willpower, Geralt?” he teased, reaching out and pinching a stubbled cheek.

Geralt lifted an eyebrow in mild warning. “Enough that I could walk away and leave you to take care of yourself tonight.”

“Ha, ha. Oh, don’t be like that.” Jaskier slung a leg over Geralt’s to keep him from abandoning him. It seemed like an empty threat considering that they were both equally aroused, but it wasn’t worth the risk. “I’d rather _you_ took care of me,” he said quietly, snuggling closer and gently running a finger over the ridges of Geralt’s collarbone.

Geralt followed the darkened-blue eyes as they travelled across his skin before gazing up expectantly into his own; he looked a little needy, but that was okay, it was far better than seeing him miserable, miserable and…distant. “Mm,” he sounded, and slowly slid a knee up between Jaskier’s thighs until it rested on the underside of his erect cock…then gave it a jiggle.“In that case, what do you want done with this?”

Some recent imagery flashed through Jaskier’s mind as his eyes fell on the outline of Geralt’s backside, and he curled his lips mischievously.

“Well, I thought I might fuck you with it,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

Geralt gave a deep chuckle. _He should have guessed._ “Nice try, Jaskier.”

Jaskier wasn’t offended. He had expected such a response. It was something Geralt just didn’t do. He knew that. He simply liked to remind him of the possibility now and again, just in case Geralt had changed his mind but didn’t want to be the first to mention it. Jaskier didn’t _need_ it of course, he was happy with their arrangement, happy to stroked, and played with, and fucked by Geralt from time-to-time, but he often fantasised about it, about being accepted in such a way…

“Worth a shot though, eh?” he grinned, brightening. He didn’t want pressure him, nor did he want to push his luck, he never needed more that Geralt was willing to give him. Instead he rolled onto his back and wriggled his hips to draw attention to his cock. “Give me a pull, will you?”

Geralt was a little surprised at how quickly the matter was dropped. Jaskier had suggested it on several occasions, and though never pestering him about it at any length, he usually put a bit more effort in, following it up with a ‘What? You don’t want a lovely bard-cock in you?’ or ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Geralt, I’ve had great reviews’.” But not this time, he just let it go.

Perhaps more unexpected still, was that in lieu of getting to fuck him, Jaskier was in a position to ask for any number of practised alternatives, a mouth on his cock, a tongue up his arse, a thorough fingering, he could have been buggered himself if he’d asked…but no, he just wanted a tug, and Geralt briefly wondered if Jaskier had made such a modest request simply because he knew it wouldn’t be turned down. He didn’t want to ask him that, but perhaps there was a compromise…

“Hmm,” he frowned thoughtfully. “You want a wet one?”

Jaskier beamed.

A ‘wet one’ was a particular brand of hand-job he provided Geralt with, one where he would slick him up with oil, rub it into his cock and balls, then (sometimes using both hands if he was feeling frivolous) wetly toss him off. It started as something he did after giving him a massage, but it had been so well-received that he would occasionally do it at other times, a treat when he’d been behaving himself—needless to say, it wasn’t _too_ often. Geralt however, _never_ did it to him, so this was a bit special, and it was more than he’d asked for.

“I’d love one.”

Geralt rose from the bed to retrieve the lavender oil from beside the bath. When he returned, he knelt by Jaskier’s side, uncorked the bottle and liberally poured the oil into his hand.

“You want it fast or slow?”

Jaskier didn’t often get the choice. He wanted it to last as long as possible, but would be content with whatever he was offered. “Either is fine,” he said, then gave a long sigh and relaxed against the pillow. “Just make me feel better.”

“Slow then,” Geralt smiled. He’d promised him attention, and knew that Jaskier wouldn’t want the whole thing to be over in under minute, he was just a little curious to see if Jaskier would tell him that. Apparently not.

He placed the bottle on the floor and held his fist a few inches above Jaskier’s cock, letting the excess oil drizzle slowly onto the tip. He aimed for his slit and mostly hit the target, the fluid mingling with a watery bead of pre-come, the combined mixture dribbling down his length.

Jaskier looked down past his chest and watched as his cock began to strain through the steady trickle, rising up closer to his belly, lowering, then rising again. The cooling sensation when the liquid met the air made his skin tingle, but it was the anticipation of Geralt’s hand that was responsible for the behaviour of his willy. Geralt seemed to like watching it move around though, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Looks like we’ve got a live one,” he said softly.

Jaskier gave a quiet a laugh. He could hardly deny it.

Geralt didn’t draw out the tease though, instead, as the final drops left his clutched fist, he followed their path to the head of his cock, gradually sliding his warm, rough palm over the tip and down, all the way to the root, his grip tight enough and his motion slow enough that the oil gathered below his pinkie and, in single stroke, coated every inch of his length.

When Geralt reached his pubic hair, pressing deep into the curls and steadying his hand, Jaskier let out the breath he’d been holding with a long exhale through the puff of his cheeks. And with that, Geralt moved again, this time up, though at the same languid pace, pulling his foreskin over the tip, lightly pinching the pucker of it above the top just to be cheeky, then drawing it back down, eventually falling into a slow but steady rhythm.

Jaskier sighed happily.

“Better?”

Jaskier gave a dopey smile and nodded then rested his head on the pillow and let his eyelids flutter down.

Geralt was pleased when he saw him do that. Normally, Jaskier couldn’t take his eyes off his own cock, so this was a rarity. But he was familiar with the sensation himself, knew how good Jaskier’s own hands felt when they caressed him like this, so relaxing that he was often torn between wanting to come and wanting to nod off. He had once. Jaskier having apparently been a little offended by his erection softening in his hand…until he heard him snoring.

He dipped his hand under Jaskier’s cock, pressing down over his pudgy sac and cupping his balls, fondling each one in turn before rolling them both around in his oil-soaked palm.

“Mmm. That feels nice…” Jaskier said dreamily, then lifted his forearm off the bed and lazily twirled his hand with his fingers pinched in the poetic way he often did. “It’s like…a hot summer’s day…wading through a cold, shallow lake…and submerging…your warm, sticky balls.”

“I look forward to the song. It will inspire generations.”

“I shall dedicate…this masterpiece…to you…dear Geralt.”

“Don’t bother,” Geralt smirked, taking his whole oily sac in his hand and giving it a firm tug. Jaskier let out a surprised but pleasured ‘ooh!’ then laughed. Believing he’d made his point, Geralt went back to work on his cock; he slid up and down, twisted and pulled, and every so often, stilled his hand, applying gentle pressure in a warm, reassuring hold, all while listening to Jaskier’s little gasps and moans.

Now comfortable with his technique, he looked up at Jaskier who lay with his eyes still closed, arms by his sides. He watched his smile widen with his favourite moves and open up when he did something slightly different; he watched his brow twitch with pleasure when he touched something sensitive and lift contentedly with everything familiar. Jaskier was so easily pleased. He’d certainly had _loud_ bed-partners before, women who liked to squeal the house down in apparent ecstasy, but he’d never been with someone like Jaskier, so generous with his enjoyment, so appreciative of every touch he was given, and Geralt didn’t always give him a lot…

A thought occurred to him just then, a playful one. He paused, undecided. Knowing Jaskier, he probably wouldn’t understand it, and there was no way he was going to explain it to him. Still…

He rose from his current position and settled over Jaskier’s legs, parting his knees around his thighs. He reached back down, but instead of pulling and massaging him the way he had been, he curled his middle finger and thumb into a small, tight circle, still wet with oil, and began, ever so slowly, to push it down over the head of his cock.

Jaskier felt the difference, and it was a curious one. The ring of Geralt’s fingers was achingly tight, the motion oddly straight, and the drag almost painfully slow. With Geralt sat astride his thighs it would be easy to imagine he was…he was…

Geralt watched a grin start to spread across Jaskier’s face as he eased his fingers down, his slick cock throbbing deeply in his grasp. He seemed to understand.

“I’m…making love to you,” Jaskier whispered.

That was the idea, but the phrase caught Geralt a little off-guard, the delivery perhaps moreso. It was a term Jaskier didn’t often use.It was onehe _never_ used. Too intimate. Too romantic...yet tonight, there was something about it; something about the breath behind the vowels; something about the way the ‘v’ was bitten gently between his teeth and bottom lip.

He could have said nothing in response, his silence was confirmation enough, but the warmth of it had dazed him and without really thinking about it he whispered back: “You are.”

He saw the exact moment that the answer sunk in, the moment the idea turned from a concept to a reality for him: his head tipped back slightly, his eyebrows pulled up and together, and his smile parted around a breathy ‘ah’.

Geralt slowly moved his fingers up then down, keeping the pressure firm, and Jaskier began to moan quietly, eventually raising his hand and placing a warm palm on Geralt’s thigh.

He continued, his own cock pulsing with each of Jaskier’s soft noises, but after a minute or so, he stopped moving his hand, holding the ‘o’ of his fingers about a third of the way down his cock.

Jaskier, without opening his eyes lest he break the spell, whined a little at the sudden lack of motion, and eager for the feeling to return, gently raised his hips up to chase Geralt’s fingers, thinking it might spur him on. Geralt remained still however, and Jaskier then realised that that was entirely the point: Geralt wanted _him_ to move…to make love to him…

…so he did, smoothly rolling his hips exactly the way he would have done were it Geralt’s body and not his hand.

It was strange seeing Jaskier like this, playing at having sex with him. Geralt always imagined that if he ever let him do it, even if it were gentle, it would still have a sort of…dominance to it, an ego, something that gave him the feeling he was being subjugated in some way. Perhaps that’s what had always deterred him. What he was seeing now however, couldn’t have been any further from it. Jaskier looked more like _he_ was the one being fucked: lost and delirious.

Jaskier felt Geralt’s hand disappear altogether, leaving him, for a few seconds at least, awkwardly thrusting up into the air. He opened his eyes slowly, re-adjusting to the candlelight, and found Geralt smiling down at him. He pouted.

“Don’t give me that pout, Jaskier. We’re not done.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt crawled up his body, and so reached up to wrap his arms around his neck to accept his kiss.

“I didn’t come up here for a kiss,” Geralt chuckled.

“Oh. Well, that’s a bit embarrassing. Can I have one anyway?”

Geralt pretended to think about it. “Hmm. I suppose.”

Geralt clasped his chin and leaned down, and Jaskier’s cock jumped the moment he felt warm lips on his. He took Geralt’s face in his hands and tilted it to slot their mouths together, joining them in a series of small sloppy kisses. Geralt snaked an arm under his neck and pressed him into it, deepening the kiss with his tongue.

A moan vibrated against Geralt's mouth and he used the distraction of it to do what he came up here for. He reached back and held Jaskier’s cock, pushing the stalk of it into the crevice of his backside; he slid slowly against it, the oil slippery and warm between his buttocks.

Jaskier gave a surprised ‘Mmf’, and Geralt broke the kiss and drew back onto his knees.

Jaskier stared in wonder, wonder and arousal. He had never been allowed this close, not even with his fingers, and now he was right up against him, those big cheeks, steely yet soft, pillowing the curve of his cock, following its length up and down. He wanted to come like this, wanted to spill while being massaged by them.

“Yes,” he said, no other words coming to mind.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Geralt continued to rub against him a little while longer but then rose on his knees and stilled, hovering above him. Jaskier was about to ask why he’d stopped, but just then, Geralt gripped his cock firmly and slid the head of it directly over his hole.

Jaskier gave a tiny yip, and saw Geralt smile at his reaction. He took a deep breath and let it out with a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh.

“Phew. Don’t tease me like that, Geralt. You’ll give me a heart-attack, and I’m not ready to die yet, I still haven't swum with dolphins or tried vegetarianism.”

Geralt looked at him, and though he still wore a smile, it wasn’t mocking in the slightest.

“Who’s teasing?” he replied softly, continuing to run Jaskier’s oiled-cock over his hole, his muscles fluttering against it.

For a moment, Jaskier didn’t understand…not even as Geralt relaxed his shoulders with a long outward breath, not even as he lowered himself on his parted knees; he only realised what was happening when he felt a sudden pressure around the very tip of his cock, a scorching heat as Geralt nudged it into his body.

“F-fuck” he gasped, and his heart started thudding in his chest.

Geralt hadn’t expected to go this far, wasn’t sure on the exact moment he had decided to, yet here he was, the urge having somehow grabbed him. He pressed him an inch inside, and though anticipating it, a breath still caught in his throat and he let it out with a soft grunt.

Jaskier gave a loud, high-pitched whine and Geralt clapped his hand over his mouth, pads clammy against his lips. He looked up and noticed Geralt’s brow glistening with sweat, his face a little pinker from the penetration.

“Shh, Jaskier…” And though his lips curled up at the corner, it seemed a bit forced. “…Don’t want to get caught like this, do we?”

Jaskier shook his head with a muffled ‘mmmff’.

Geralt kept his palm clasped on his mouth then slowly sunk onto his cock with a low groan, the sound dampened behind the tight press of his lips.

Jaskier whined again, but this time it fell flat against Geralt’s hand.

Geralt let out a breath and stilled when he settled in Jaskier’s lap, the whole length of his cock buried inside him. It was intimate, and of course it was, yet it didn’t feel nearly as invasive as he thought it would—not mentally invasive at least, no assault on his sensibilities. Physically however, Jaskier made him quite full, stretched, but not unpleasantly so.

He removed his hand from Jaskier’s lips and smiled down at him. “You’re bigger than you look.”

Jaskier didn't know if it was a compliment or an insult. “Y-you’re…uhh…warmer…than you…seem? Fuck. No. Sorry. That’s not what I…I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Then don’t talk.”

Jaskier nodded silently, and Geralt began to gently rock his hips, feeling Jaskier’s cock shift around inside him.

“Ugh…Gods…yes…” Jaskier groaned, knitting his eyebrows and swathing his palms across Geralt’s thighs then up his flank and down onto his arse, holding his cheeks but unable to guide him when Geralt had all the strength and control. Instead he watched him, watched the way his large muscular body, flushed to his chest, rippled as he rode his cock; the way his still-damp frosty hair caught on his eyelashes as it fell forward, framing his dark yellow eyes; and the way his thick cock bobbed up and down, gently slapping between their bellies; his cock, which was at this very moment sluggishly oozing pre-come in viscous strings that were gathering into a small puddle on his tummy.

He ran a finger through the wet, raised his hand shakily to his mouth and smeared it across his lips, darting his tongue out to taste it.

“Mmm,” he moaned, pressing the fluid between his lips, not even entirely sure what he was doing. He reached out to Geralt’s cock and began to pull him in time with the rolls of his hips.

Geralt grasped wrist and pinned it to the bed.

“No,” he said, and Jaskier noticed the slight breathlessness in his voice.

“But I…”

Geralt held his wrist still. Jaskier felt good, and it was tempting to have him bring him off while they fucked, but he had decided beforehand that he wasn’t going to spill until Jaskier was done; this was the attention he’d promised him, so he shook his head.

“This…is…for you,” he breathed.

“B-but…ah…I want it to be for you too,” Jaskier stuttered, and Geralt gave a hoarse chuckle, the sentimentality of it surprising him.

“It will be.”

He could tell Jaskier wasn’t finished complaining, but he didn’t wait to hear any more. He let go of his wrist, sat up, reached both hands back to brace himself on Jaskier’s thighs and began to jounce on his cock, the bed-frame squeaking furiously.

“Fuck! No-no-no-no-no-stop-stop-stop-stop-stop…you’ll make me come…you’ll make come!”

Geralt smiled, even as he struggled for breath, even as he fucked down onto him. “…That is…the intention…yes…”

“B-but!”

Geralt wasn’t going to drag this out all night for him, so in defiance, he moved faster still, the oil making squelching sounds as Jaskier’s cock slithered in and out of him.

Jasker grimaced, scrunching his face so hard that he could only squint up at Geralt, only make out the outline of Geralt’s cock slapping wildly between them, the whipping of his grey-white hair, and the heaving of his fur-covered chest; he felt drops of sweat trickling down his thighs, heavy balls smacking against his skin, and hot, slippery walls quickly stripping his cock.

“Geralt, Geralt…I…I’m………………Urgh.”

He spilled, in what might have been one of the most intense climaxes of his life, his muscles spasming and his vision going briefly out of focus as his seed fountained up inside Geralt in three hard spurts.

Geralt felt every one of them, hyper-sensitively, the strength and temperature of each. He clenched around him, holding him in place, and while Jaskier was still hard, reached around and fiercely fisted his own cock.

Jaskier noticed and nodded quickly and encouragingly, gasping for breath.

“T-that’s…that’s it…c-come on my cock, Geralt…come on my—”

His words were cut off by a rasped curse, and a huge rope of semen erupted from Geralt’s cock and squirted across Jaskier’s nose, mouth, and chin; several weaker ones streaked his chest-hair and splattered on his stomach; Geralt’s cock then strained a few more times, but there was nothing left.

Jaskier threw his head back into the pillow, wiped the spend from his face, and tried to catch his breath. He watched as Geralt lifted himself up off his softening cock, a little unsteady on his legs, then sat back on his haunches, tapping his thigh to have him make room on the single bed. Jaskier complied and they both stared at the thatched roof, panting.

“That was…I…I mean it was…it…” Jaskier laughed at himself. “For once, you’ve left me speechless.”

Geralt smiled, his breath evening out. “Then I’m rarer than most.”

“The rarest,” Jaskier smiled back, and when they had both relaxed, leaned over and placed a slow, gentle kiss on Geralt’s biceps.

“Oh? What was that for?”

“A thank you.”

Geralt chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t thank people for fucking you, Jaskier. It sounds so desperate.”

“Maybe. But you’ve never done that with me before, and it…couldn’t have been easy.”

Geralt flared his nostrils in mock stoicism. “Barely felt it,” he said, then smirked. “Must have been because of your tiny cock.”

Jaskier laughed and smacked him. “Cheeky bugger.” It was a tease, Geralt _loved_ his cock, and it was at least 'bigger than it looked'. He had however, actually been referring to how difficult it must have been for him to decide to do it when he’d been so adamant in his refusal in the past, but he thought it best not to probe him on the mental or emotional processes leading up to it. That said, he still needed _some_ feedback.

“Sooo. What did you think? Of the overall experience. Hm? Three words or less.”

“I need sleep.”

“Right. Good,” he said, as though satisfied, then waited a few seconds. “I mean...technically more an update than a review, if we, you know, want to get _particular_ about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay, okay, but your lack of scathing criticism _does_ give the impression that it…wasn’t awful,” he said, then nudged him and added quietly: “…or at least not as awful as you imagined.”

Geralt turned to him. He couldn’t understand how Jaskier could possibly think that he didn’t like it when he’d been so obviously aroused and Jaskier still had some evidence of said arousal dribbling down his chin, though it made him feel bad that he had previously given the impression that the idea abhorred him. He hadn’t meant it like that.

“No, Jaskier,” he said softly, “It wasn’t awful.”

Jaskier threw a leg over Geralt’s and cuddled closer. “Is it something you would consider…doing again?”

Geralt grinned. His seed had barely left his balls and Jaskier already wanted to know if there would be the opportunity for future performance. That said, he hadn’t really given Jaskier the chance to fuck him properly, to fuck him in the manner in which he chose…

“You know, Jaskier…” he began with an amused drawl, loosely draping his arm around his shoulder, “…the only benefit I ever saw in being fucked was that, like you, I’d get to lie on my back like a princess, doing nothing at all useful but taking a cock. Now our roles are reversed, yet somehow I still find myself doing all the work. The weight of injustice hangs heavy here.”

Jaskier laughed. “I see what you mean. Well, if you _do_ want to do it again, I assure you, I will treat you like this princess with which you equate me. I will allow you to be the _laziest_ of slobs and will dote on you all the more for it, and I will only seek to chase my own pleasure once I have utterly satisfied you. Sound fair?”

“I’ll…think about it.” He didn’t need to.

Jaskier smiled, and lay on Geralt’s chest, but just then, his stomach gave a hungry little rumble.

“Biscuit time?” Geralt asked.

“ _Actually_ , I was _sort_ of hoping that if you weren’t incapacitated from the internal presence of my manhood, you might use that witcher-stealth of yours to sneak us some stew without alerting the domestic authorities.”

Hmm. _Food did sound good._ “That, I can do.”

*

They rose late the next morning, well-rested and thoroughly sated. Bags packed and ready to go, they entered the kitchen where Renata sat knitting.

“Mornin’” she said, and though it was not exactly _friendly_ , Jaskier found it surprisingly…civil, suspiciously so.

“Morning,” Geralt smiled.

“Umm…good…morning?” Jaskier replied hesitantly. “Did you…um…sleep well?”

“You ‘avin a laugh!? Scarcely got a blink with all that racket you was makin’ last night.”

Jaskier spluttered, choking on his own spit. “Um-um…I…” He looked over at Geralt for support, but Geralt raised his eyebrows in an expression of _‘this ones all yours’_. “…R-racket, you say? G-gosh, I’m not sure what you me—”

“—Imagin’ trainin’ in the middle of the night.”

“T-training? Ohhh, _training,”_ Jaskier sighed with relief. _“_ Yes. _Sorry_ about that, he trains best at night you see, it’s a witcher thing. It’s when they’re at their most, ahem…energetic.”

“Well, you should take it outside next time. Ain’t no place to be crashin’ about. If I find that you’ve broken me bed, you’ll be buyin’ me a new one.”

“I have checked its structural integrity, ma’am. It remains sound,” Geralt replied, then smiled charmingly. “And once I receive my payment, we’ll be on our way.”

“Money, money, money. That’s all you witchers is bothered about.”

Jaskier frowned sadly. If she only knew…

“Right, right. ‘Ere you go.” She reached into her apron and took out a small linen pouch, throwing it to Geralt who caught it swiftly in one hand.

“My thanks,” he said with a final nod, and they headed for the door.

But just as they were about to cross its threshold, she called them back with an ‘oi’.

Geralt stopped, preparing himself for another verbal onslaught. _What had he done now?_ He took a deep breath and turned around, but when he did, she thrust into his hands…one giant, green, leafy vegetable.

He eyed it curiously.

“Hm? What’s…this?”

“Are you some kind of idiot!? It’s a cabbage, you dolt.”

“I’m aware that it’s a cabbage, ma’am. I’m asking why you would gift me it.”

Jaskier watched Renata cross her arms and, rather alarmingly, she appeared a little embarrassed.

“Caught some scallywags approachin’ me cabbage patch this mornin’. They took one look at that warg ’ead of yours and ran a mile. Screamin’ like banshees, they were. Serves ‘em right too. I ‘ope they shit themselves. Anyway. I’m pleased.”

Jaskier could see that Geralt was trying to remain neutral, but could tell he was happy, and when Jaskier caught his eye, gave him a wink. Geralt’s lips pulled up at the corner, handsome lines framing his handsome smile, and he turned to face Renata. “Glad to be of service,” he said to her. “Thank you for your hospitality…and the gift,” he added, gently patting the top of the cabbage.

And for the first time… _Renata_ smiled, and not just a smile, but a big toothy grin, and Jaskier wondered how long it had been since she’d done that, how long it might yet have been, had a sweetheart witcher not brought her the head of a corpse.

“Very good,” she said cheerfully. “Now fuck off.”

“Will do,” Geralt nodded, grinning.

Jaskier gave a deep and exaggerated bow, and Renata responded by smirking and whipping him with her cloth. “You and all, Peacock.”

They walked outside. The air was mild, the sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly.

“Look at all that lovely weather, eh, Geralt?” Jaskier said, shading his eyes from the rays. “Seems I won’t need you to kill me after all.”

Geralt sighed. “And I was so hopeful.”

“I _know!_ What a _disappointment!_ ” Jaskier laughed, falling into step with Geralt’s longer strides and elbowing him playfully, then lowering his voice to something more socially acceptable. “I suppose you’ll just have to put up with me a little longer. Hm?”

Geralt turned to him and smiled, warmly and affectionately.

“I suppose I will,” he said, and Jaskier smiled back, moving closer so that their arms brushed as they walked.

_Today was going to be a good day._

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that!
> 
> It was longer than usual, so if you've been following my Witcher fics, thank you for taking the extra time for this one; if you're new to my fics, thank you for clicking and not being intimidated by the word count! You're fearless! XD 
> 
> The honey cake is a reference to my last fic 'Gifts and Stories' by the way, and Geralt continues to look for excuses to kill Jaskier XD I usually say that my Witcher fics can be read as standalones, but they can also be read as a series.
> 
> I like PowerBottom!Geralt but I hope Jaskier gets his chance to take care of a LazySlob!Geralt! XD
> 
> I usually tend to lean into Geralt's snark more, but I like his dreadful humour too. DadJoke!Geralt is joy.
> 
> Also. For those of you who are interested in the fish story:
> 
> 'They had attended a banquet once, their wealthy and well-travelled host impressing the guests with his varied selection of fine seafood. A crowd had formed around a particular fish which stood out from the rest on account of its luminous purple scales, a stark contrast to the traditional greys and pinks. "What an odd looking fish," a noblewoman had said, fluttering her fan in mild offence, to which Geralt had responded: "Hm. I agree," and raised an eyebrow, "it's a little out of plaice." The room had shaken with upper-class laughter. Jaskier had drained his goblet of wine in one gulp then reached for the bottle.'


End file.
